


And I'll Keep You

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Category: Doom (2005)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Reality, Canon Character of Color, Character Death Fix, Character of Color, F/M, Implied Relationships, Male Protagonist, POV Male Character, Sibling Incest, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-02
Updated: 2010-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sam have escaped Olduvai but not the UAC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I'll Keep You

**Author's Note:**

> Altered reality in which Sarge didn't mutate into a monster. This does not make things less fucked up in the long run, and this is really just a set up for some shameless, filthy dirty-bad-wrong porn for later that I couldn't write without some background first. My long-standing tradition of writing in rare, virtually nonexistent fandoms apparently continues. Hurrah. Thanks to [](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**lunesque**](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/) for the beta.

There's a pinch. Then Sam slides the needle beneath John's skin. He exhales a slow breath, uncurling his fingers as he watches the syringe fill with his blood. It looks normal. But then again, so does he. When he flicks a look to the right and stares at the bed on the other side of the glass, Sarge looks normal, too.

John's attention is drawn back to the needle when he feels that strange, smooth slide beneath his skin. With the needle gone and a bead of blood pooling to the surface of his skin, he looks up at Sam. "How's he doing?"

She presses a cotton ball to the puncture site, but John sees the look she darts in Sarge's direction as she forces John to curl his arm. "He's stabilized." She leans closer, two fingers pressed to his pulse, and glances at her watch. John tilts his head, sparing a quick look at the cameras keeping watch on them from the ceiling. Those are only the visible ones. If he looked, he's sure he could easily find five more. "He's like you, John." Sam's lips don't move too much — good girl — but she reflexively swallows, a fine tremble in her fingertips that John can feel vibrating straight to his gut. "UAC has confirmed that it wasn't a mutation."

Message delivered, she draws away and makes a notation on the chart, avoiding his eyes. John watches her close the case and gather her supplies. She vanishes through the nanowall when Sarge starts to stir. John flexes his fingers and pulls off the cotton ball. There's a smear of blood on his skin, but the wound has already healed.

~*~

Sarge doesn't move much, but it's hard to when he's strapped to the bed by his ankles and wrists. Detox isn't easy. John wonders how long Sarge has been on the stuff, how he could have missed it considering how long they've served together. He's not given much time to dwell on it, though, when he hears the subtle sound of the nanowall shifting to something more transparent.

He turns to see Sam, her hair in a loose ponytail, most of the strands falling down around her face. She looks hurried, the corners of her mouth pinched like she's scared. John sits at the foot of the bed and watches her. She still has a limp in her stride, a small halt to her step like she's still trying to figure out how her legs work. She doesn't warm her fingers before she presses two to the pulse in his neck. He's too focused on the way her hands tremble to flinch. He reaches for her, sets a hand low on her hip, hooks a leg around her calf, and draws her closer. She braces her right hand against his shoulder to keep her balance and stares down at him.

"You okay?" he asks.

It's been ten years for them, but some things haven't changed. Maybe never will. Sam's eyes still crinkle at the corner when she's thinking about lying. She still licks her lips, too; John catches the way they part and watches the dab of her tongue.

"They're going to run more invasive tests." Her palm slides up, her fingers curling around his shoulder and squeezing. John has to assume UAC is listening, that they've been listening since they allowed Sam to run his tests instead of the other doctor. Kensington. "John—"

John presses two fingers to her lips, the skin still damp, soft. His fingers slide away, down her chin, and he lets them hit air instead of trailing down the length of her neck to the hollow at her collarbone. To the swell of her breast. "It's gonna be okay."

Sam doesn't ask how, but John can see the question in her eyes, can see it in the way she purses her lips when she's annoyed with his answers. Or lack of. "Your temperature is high."

John's skin prickles when Sam's fingers drift from his shoulder to his neck. "Your hands are just cold. Like always."

A smile flits across Sam's lips, there and gone, and he gives her hip a short, encouraging squeeze to get it back.

"How's Sarge?"

Sam slides a look to the window, her expression softening. He can't read it. Could be sympathy or could be pity for what Sarge is enduring. "John," she whispers. There's almost the lilt of a question at the end, but John's not sure what she's asking.

He nods anyway, her eyes landing on his face at the movement. The cameras are watching them, so he can't tell her 'I didn't leave him at Olduvai, I'm sure as hell not leaving him here' or the more important reassurance, 'I'll get us out of here.' Instead, John tucks the loose strands of her hair behind her ear, allowing the tips of his fingers to linger on her skin and trace down to the hinge of her jaw. She takes the samples, quiet and self-determined, and then slips from his grasp like a ghost.

~*~

John bolts out of bed, reaching for his rifle when he hears something between a shout and a groan. It sounds a lot like a man dying. Sounds a lot like Sarge. He rushes to the window — didn't understand why it was there 'til now — and stares hard at Kensington's back. He can recognize the doctor by the hunch of his shoulders, that slim build that's just short of skeletal. Kensington rolls his shoulders back, but John can't see what he's doing, can only watch as Sarge bows off the bed, pulling hard on the restraints strapped around his wrists.

John slams his fist against the window, but it's not glass so it doesn't shatter. Doesn't even crack. It also doesn't look like it made a sound because Kensington doesn't even flinch. Son of a—John bangs harder, willing Sarge to look at him, and if John could, he'd tear down the whole room to get to the other side. Blood wells up around the restraints on Sarge's wrists, and he bows up again, jaw clenched so tight that John wonders if the C-24 gave them the ability to regrow their teeth, too.

John's breathing hard, still banging on the window, when Kensington finally straightens and turns around.

"The test subject—" John can't hear the words — they're too muffled and soft — but he can read Kensington's lips. Guess these were the invasive tests that Sam tried to warn him about.

John holds Kensington's eyes and hopes he sees Reaper in them. Kensington snaps off his gloves, pockets something, and steps briskly through the nanowall. John flattens his palms against the window and takes one slow breath before he lets himself see Sarge.

Sarge lays boneless on the bed, eyes too wide, jaw still tight. The rest comes in pieces, the blood pooling up around the wrist restraints, the red splotch blooming across the fabric of Sarge's shirt, the quick rise and fall of Sarge's chest.

"Goddamn it." Then Sarge turns his head, tugs on the restraints like he's testing them, like he can't see the blood there. "When the hell are we getting out of here, Reaper?"

John thinks to hell with it as his mouth pulls into a grin. Let the cameras see 'em. "Soon as you move your ass," he mouths.

~*~

"John," Sam says the moment she steps through the nanowall.

John looks at her, itching to cross the room and sweep her out of here, but it's not going to be that easy. "Get 'im loose, Sam."

"And then what?"

John stares at her until she looks away. She takes a breath and pins him with a hard stare. "You're next, you know. Kensington—"

"Is an asshole prick." John holds out his arm, palm up. This time, he looks away, toward one of the cameras in the corner. He hopes Kensington is watching. "Take the samples. Get it over with."

Sam's palm is cool on his forearm, but the tips of her fingers are warm like she tried to heat them before touching him. He slides a look up to her face and loosely curls his fingers around her elbow, drawing her closer. She slots easily in the space between his thighs, her other hand curling around his shoulder.

"Is it my turn for the uplifting speech?" she asks, her voice as soft as the squeeze of her fingers on his shoulder.

"Sam—"

She presses two fingers to his lips and offers him an easy smile, the one she wears when she's trying to be the older sibling. "None of that now."

John aches to kiss her. He circles a hand around her wrist and almost pulls to close the gap between them. Instead, he brushes his lips over the tips of her fingers, breathing out slow and steady. "Do what you can," he says.

She slips her hand free, but it doesn't go far, settles low on his cheek and warms to the heat of his skin. "The three of us."

The corner of John's mouth quirks into a grin, and he rubs his thumb over Sam's hand. "Does this mean you've warmed to Sarge?"

Sam pulls away from him and opens her kit. "He could have killed me, but he didn't. And you chose to save him. Under these circumstances, a second chance doesn't seem entirely unreasonable."

John breathes in when the needle slides under his skin. "Guess not."

~*~

John leans against the thermoplastic, arms folded across his chest, and watches Sam through the window. She's too focused on unbuckling Sarge's wrist restraints to pay John much notice, but Sarge's eyes find his the moment she moves to the ankle restraints. Sarge rubs his wrists, right one first, then his left. He looks clear-eyed and focused. Looks haunted, too. So many questions. So much that has to be addressed later, and Olduvai in the fucking middle of it.

John's attention is caught by the movement of Sam's fingers sliding up Sarge's shin. Her hand settles on his knee as she sits on the bed. She shines a light in Sarge's eyes, checks his pulse, counts his breaths, has him stretch and then jog around the room. He's fit. He's—John's thoughts stall on the word 'normal.' It doesn't fit either one of them anymore. Only normal one is Sam.

~*~

It was only a matter of time, but it still hurts like a fucking son of a bitch when Kensington finally comes for him. John only half-hears what Kensington says, the chunk the doctor is carving out of his chest taking precedence in his thoughts. It doesn't take his focus, though. His mind keeps working, endlessly plotting scenarios, noting the tiny details that'll get him, Sam, and Sarge out of this cage.

 _They'll go for her next. How the fuck did the doctor get him strapped to the bed? Drugs. Vents? Heard Sarge. Possibly connected. Find a way out—_

John collapses onto the bed, numb, almost delirious, his jaw aching from the grind of his teeth. He breathes in, hard and quick through his nostrils, when the skin on his chest pulls tight. He doesn't have to look down to see that his body is repairing itself.

"Accelerated rate of healing is the same as Test Subject B," Kensington notes in whatever recording device he's using.

John listens to Kensington's feet shuffle against the floor. "Kensington," he rasps, flexing his fingers, the wrist restraints tight enough to start cutting off the circulation to his fingers.

He opens his eyes. Kensington hovers near the nanowall, but his eyes meet John's across the room. That's all John wants: to share a look. He falls back on the bed and exhales a slow breath. He catches a shadow in his periphery and turns his head. Sarge stands at the window, jaw set and palms laid flat against the thermoplastic.

Soon, he mouths.

John nods and shuts his eyes.

~*~

"Oh god. John."

Sam's nails scratch his wrists when she yanks at the restraints, unbuckling them in furious, short movements 'til he's completely free.

"Don't move."

She plants a hand against his chest and shoves him back onto the bed. A lock of her hair falls into her eyes when she stares down at the blood flaking off her palms. She shakes her head, lips pursing into a frown, and snaps on a pair of gloves. She blows the hair out of her face and starts cleaning John's chest with small, circular movements, starting on his left side and working toward the right. He closes his eyes and breathes in and out, keeping his mind occupied with something other than the quick, precise way that Sam touches him.

"We heal really damn fast," he tells her.

Sam's hand stops over his nipple, the flesh tightening into a hard peak beneath the warmth of her palm. He breathes in, swallows, and keeps his eyes shut, willing himself not to grab her and drag her down and kiss her until the frown is gone, until she believes that he'll keep all of them safe. Ten long years don't change much at all.

"I'll be isolated in the labs," Sam whispers, and shifts closer to him, wiping the blood off his side.

John opens his eyes and catches a glimpse of Sam's collarbone beneath her white lab coat. He doesn't allow himself to look lower. "Conflict of interest?"

Her hand curves around his ribs, her head dropping low as she breathes out a tight, "Damn it, John."

He has a hand on her cheek before he can stop himself, shifts her head so she can look him in the eyes and know. Trust me, he says silently and hopes the soft, "I know," he gives her is enough to convince her.

"Days," she murmurs, covering his hand.

"I'll find you." Her pulse flutters beneath his fingertips, and it takes everything in him not to pull her closer. "I'll always find you."

She closes her eyes. It's a long moment — several heartbeats and John's restraint pulled to its end — before she finally nods.

John exhales when her lips brush his palm.

~*~

 _"John ... ."_

John opens his eyes, can't breathe, and can't figure out why his nose is buried in the mattress. The pain is sharp, crawls up from the base of his spine and lodges in the space below his ribs until it's wrapped around his torso ten times over. He pulls against the restraints, but it's more than just his wrist and ankles. There's a strap across his shoulders — and his thighs and calves — that keeps him immobilized. He can barely manage a twitch.

His eyes roll up, and he thinks of Sam, keeps her firmly planted in his mind like he did in Olduvai. _I'll find you_ , he silently promises just before he feels a prick in his thigh and slips under.

~*~

 _If we're going to do it, we have to do it now_ , Sarge mouths on the other side of the window.

John rubs his lower back and nods.

~*~

The alarm screams like a fucking banshee and the lights flash in a furious red strobe that puts John back in Olduvai. This time, though, he's in control of the situation.

He stands in the middle of the room and waits, and just as expected, Kensington storms through the nanowall with six armed guards. John sprints forward and takes down the first guard with a chop to the throat just as the nanowall solidifies. He yanks the rifle strap just in time to jam the butt into the temple of the second guard. A twist, a pull of the trigger, and the third guard goes down — shot to the knee. The scream is easy for John to ignore as he brings the rifle up and fires another shot. A shoulder wound takes out the fourth guard. Blood splashes across John's face, hits his eye, but he closes it, aims, and pulls the trigger. The fifth guard screams, stumbling into the wall as he clutches his side. The last guard isn't fast enough to avoid the rifle butt to his nose when he rushes John.

With all the guards incapacitated, John trains the rifle on Kensington. "Face down."

Kensington lowers to the floor while John strips the men of their rifles, ammo and access cards. Kensington makes a ballsy move for the nanowall, but John kicks him in the ribs and sends him sprawling on his back.

"You won't escape," Kensington wheezes as he rolls off of one of the injured guards.

John wants to tell him that they won't be found. Instead, he aims the rifle.

 _"I know you, John. You're my brother. I know you."_

He pulls the trigger.

Kensington screams, but he's alive. He should be fucking grateful for that. John has the security card in hand and a second rifle slung over his shoulder when the nanowall disengages.

"Sam?" John asks.

Sarge takes the second rifle and checks it over. "Let's go find her."

~*~

"No," Sam says, jerking her arm out of John's hand and nearly overbalancing when she puts too much weight on her right leg. He reaches for her again, but she shakes her head and grabs onto the gurney behind her, holding up her other hand to keep him at a distance. "They put a tracker in you, John. I have to get it out or they'll be able to find us, wherever we go."

"We don't have time for that." John glances at Sarge, who nods the all-clear. "We have to go, Sam. Right now."

"And then what?" Sam pushes off the gurney and gets into John's face. "You want me to do invasive surgery in some warehouse or god knows where? Everything I need is right here. _Right here._ A sterile environment, the medical equipment—"

"Then grab it and let's go. We wait any longer, they're going to lock us back up." John stares at her, and she stares back, drawn up to her full height, her lips pursed into a thin line. "We have to go," John repeats, slowly, more softly, urging her to understand.

She makes a frustrated sound low in her throat and then twists around and grabs one of the medical bags. She tosses everything that she can into it with short, jerky movements. John takes a deep breath and then helps her, sweeping the data chips, the medical supplies — everything that he touches into the bag — until Sam grabs him, her fingers so tight around his wrist that he can feel the panicked flutter of her pulse.

"That's enough." She's shaking — he can feel it — but he lets her take one last look around the room, at him, and then nod. "Let's go."

~*~

They're miles down the road but hardly free, not with this thing that's inside John relaying their every movement. It doesn't stop him from stealing a pick-up truck, their third vehicle so far, and hustle Sam into it while Sarge gets their bags. Sam starts to laugh when John pulls out of the parking lot, the sound soft, almost strained like she's trying to hold it back. John understands it. He's worked with enough grunts to recognize that wild bubble of laughter, the shock of what's just been done for god and country.

John risks a look down at her anyway when she rests her head on his shoulder. He detaches his hand from the steering wheel and slides it through her hair, the strands warm from the sun and the heat of her body.

"What's so funny?" Sarge asks when she stretches and props her legs in his lap, inviting him into whatever joke or assessment she's got in her head.

"I guess they missed the part of my report that clearly stated 'superior intelligence.'"

Sarge averts his eyes, staring down at Sam's lap before he turns his gaze out the window, shoulders tense with the memories, with Olduvai, the one place they'll never escape no matter how fucking far they go.

John clamps down on a sigh that feels too much like defeat, and he refuses to be beat, not when he's made it this far, not when he's got Sam and got Sarge and they're on their way to freedom. He strokes back Sam's hair and answers for 'em all. "Guess so."


End file.
